Draco Malfoy Does Not Love Harry Potter
by The Vervain Faery
Summary: The castle has shut itself down. Draco does what he can to survive. AU now.


**Title: **Draco Malfoy Does Not Love Harry Potter

**Rating:** PG13

**Word Count:** 6,500

**Disclaimer:** I doubt JKR would be pleased with me for doing this with her characters.

**Pairings:** D/H… kinda

**Summary/Warning:** The castle has shut itself down. Draco does what he can to survive.

**A/N:** When I first wrote this, it was quick, and in nineteen parts. It's been over a year, and I decided to reformat it. I mean, I had plans to do so right after I finished, but got caught up in life. So… here it is, in one sitting.

Also, an AU, written before HBP.

Originally beta'd by Gildolendiel.

* * *

**Draco** Malfoy does not love Harry Potter.

Got it?

Good.

So let's set the scene.

Hogwarts is closed off. So there is no way onto the grounds, and no way off. Everyone is stuck, exactly like they are, until someone, somewhere, can break Dumbledore's charms. These charms are unlike anything else, for Dumbledore made them himself: created, cast, perfected.

It makes most of the Slytherins antsy, to know they are locked in with the enemy, with no way to ever escape. It's almost enough to make them wish their precious Death Eaters would back off and leave the school alone. Almost. They wish even harder that they can be the ones to force Dumbledore to tell how to counteract the charms; but they can't find him. No one has seen him since the day he placed the very last charm, the one that sealed them in.

The Death Eater taunts mean nothing. After all, they could stand at the edge, and say what they wanted, but not a single threat could come true. At least not yet.

But just because no one can enter, doesn't mean that other things

can't get in.

Which explains why Draco is currently crumpling a piece of parchment in his hand, cursing bitterly under his breath. He can't believe his father's audacity.

_Draco,  
I don't know what you're doing, but it had best stop now. I don't know what's come over you. You should be out here, not in there, in the company of our enemies. If Gregory and Vincent can get out of that prison, then you should be able to as well. Surely, you haven't changed allegiances, and you haven't fallen in love with the golden boy. We won't wait much longer for you. When the castle falls, you'll fall with it.  
Father_

Draco had, up until that point, tried everything he could. He hadn't a damned clue how Crabbe and Goyle had managed to get out, while no one else could even figure out how to even breech the first set of charms. But to get through that many? It was a complete wonder, especially when you saw their abysmal charms grades.

And what about Zabini? Or Parkinson? Abbott? Or even Patil? None of their parents seemed to blame them for being stuck.

He sighs and glances up at the staff table, where Snape glares down at the students. Classes had been reduced to each class once a week. The rest of the time is put towards defense. Not just the

castle's defense, but everyone in the castle as well. Because there was always the slight chance… the_ slightest_ of slight chances… someone, somewhere, would be able to break the charms, and then the eager Death Eaters would storm one of the final strongholds in Great Britain.

Draco sighs. He knows as well as everyone else that one day the hold will fall, and he has to be responsible for it if he is still inside. Otherwise, he will die, or be maimed, with all the Mudbloods and blood traitors.

He's desperate to do anything… anything at all… that can help the Cause. In fact, he and several others meet frequently, trying to figure everything out. But how can they figure anything out? After all, they may live right in the midst of the stronghold, but they don't even know where their source of resistance is coming from.

And then… sometimes even his fellow Slytherins look at him impatiently, as if they believe he's going over to the other side, bit by bit, day by day. And he only suggested that they pretend to reform.

**Like** it's been said, Draco Malfoy _does not_ love Harry Potter.

Or anything that has to do with him.

The Slytherins (and even some Ravenclaws, a couple of Hufflepuffs, and a soul Gryffindor, it's true) smirk at him. 'Sure, if that's what you say.'

He's desperate though. Right? That's why he does it. That's why he wants to do it. He's got to get out… and it doesn't even matter how.

**The** castle is dying. Or shrinking. Or running out of magic.

_Maybe all three_. Draco notices at meals that the plates are smaller… just a couple centimetres less across at first… almost as if to deflect the fact that there is less food on them. It still looks like a full plate, and sometimes, you even think it fills you up. But Draco knows it doesn't. He watches as certain older Gryffindors slide some of their food onto the first years' plates. Draco doesn't follow suit.

It's every man for himself in this hell.

Zabini smashes Draco's ribs. 'Pay attention to this' and another half-thought out plan is summarized. It'll never work, but its best to keep morale up. Draco smiles with the rest of them. _Why not?_ It _could_ work… if they only knew where the power source behind the charms was held.

He's getting even more despondent. He didn't even think it was possible. By this time, its been months since they've actually felt the sun on their faces. The air buzzes with the overload of magic in the air… the castle can't air itself out.

Overabundance of magic is supposedly what keeps some of the wards in place. Zabini shoots down the magic ceiling, but nothing happens. McGonagall glares a bit, and Zabini is forced to replace the ceiling, but not a single ward is broken. Draco knows. There's a chart in the Great Hall that tells them when a charm is being tampered with. Nothing they try has helped.

**The** staff has set up a temporary field in the Great Hall. 'Let them fly. They need the exercise.' But it doesn't work. The children still grow more and more pale, the healthy glow leaving their cheeks. Only Draco remains unchanged, his skin moonlight white, and his hair silver.

Potter loses his balance in the air, and from then on out, no one is allowed to fly. If the greatest Hogwarts' Seeker can't fly, they can't expect the rest to be able to.

**Parkinson's** hair begins to fall out, strand by strand. 'It's just stress,' they tell her. Nothing's wrong, of course. That is, until Draco finds clumps of silver-blonde hair in the Slytherin shower drain. They're wasting away. _All of them._

What about now?

Can't they pretend to reform?

'Of course not. You can never reform.'

**No** one laughs gleefully in the Great Hall anymore. No one giggles and skips along in the halls. No one stays up late in the Common Rooms, talking about their day.

There's nothing new to discuss. And even if there were, no one would have the energy or the_ will_ to do so.

Everyone just trudges along. It's too exhausting to even keep up a slight banter as the groups move from room to room.

Draco sighs, hoisting his books. He walks into the Transfiguration lab, but they have nothing left that hasn't been Transfigured at least once. Over-transforming something can have very negative effects. Instead, McGonagall just lectures.

None of the Slytherins pay attention.

It's not worth it anymore.

**Draco** Malfoy does_ not_ love Harry Potter.

I thought we already established that.

Didn't you believe me way back then?

It wasn't love that did it. Of course not.

He was wringing his fingers carelessly through his thin blonde locks when he knew what had to happen. Sure, the plan had been sitting inside his head for weeks (no, _months,_ if we're being honest) before he even allowed himself to actually consider it. And then he found himself lurking (can you believe it… a Malfoy_ lurking_ somewhere?) near where the Boy Wonder frequented his evenings.

"Potter," he says, his voice soft and low, but still with a dangerous bite (he isn't giving up _everything_, after all…) when Potter slumps down the hall.

Potter looks up, tired. He seems much thinner than ever before (even thinner than their first year there) and his clothes drape around him. Even his robes, which at one point were tight, are much too big. His green eyes have dully faded and he has lost his Quidditch tan. But as soon as he sees it is Malfoy, his hand instinctively flies to his pocket where his wand lays.

"Malfoy." Even his voice is tired. Hell, the entire castle is tired, but none more so than he. He is their saviour, _remember?_ Their only chance... "What do you want?"

"I just…" _damn every Saint in hell_. Why is it so hard to lie this time, compared to every other time? "I want to help."

Potter just stares at him for a moment. Then he bursts into weak laughter. "Don't you think we know what you're up to? Damn it, your every move is being recorded. We know what you're trying to do, and let me tell you, it isn't going to work."

Draco feels anger flare up briefly. "I'm just trying to get them all to do the right thing, too," he claims when he has a moment to think it through.

But Potter rolls his eyes and pushes past Draco. "If you're watching us, then, you know I'm in love with you, too, right?" It is a frantic last attempt, and he almost can't believe he just said it. But he has to appeal to this boy someway. Would it work? _Could_ it work?

Potter freezes. "I'll keep that in mind," he tells his nemesis before continuing down the hall.

He doesn't look back.

**The **plates have continued to shrink. By now, the golden plates are the size of saucers. The bloody Gryffindors continue to slide portions of their food to the younger ones when they are unaware. But now, the other Houses do it as well.

Which explains why the 7th years are more gaunt than any other year.

They go to class out of habit. None of them concentrate. Even Granger looks lost in her classes.

Most often, the professors don't mind. They just speak to have something to do. Otherwise, the situations would be overwhelming. At least the routine offers some comfort. They fumble, and make mistakes, but no one catches it.

No one cares.

**Potter** (more and more) often leaves class. Sometimes, he doesn't even show up. But none of the professors notice; they've stopped taking attendance.

Almost everyone else shows up…

Sometimes, they just sleep through the class, heads down on their desks. The professors don't care about this either. At least the class showed up… at least they have some companionship for fifty minutes.

Sometimes, Draco doesn't show up either. He sits in his dorm, clutching his father's latest threat. Bruises have started lining his arms. Good thing his robe covers them...

(he gasps for air...)

**One** day, Draco falls asleep in Charms. The class and Flitwick alike leave him at his desk, not caring if he ever moves again or not.

He wakes up in the dark hours of the night, unsure where he is,

really. He discovers he doesn't care if he ever finds his way home. He stays in his seat, his head down, but not falling back asleep.

The next day, the fifth years trudge in to find Draco still sitting where he had been left, head still down.

They don't bother to check if he is breathing.

**No** testers show up for NEWTs testing. Of course, how could they even get in? _Or care?_ The Death Eaters have completely controlled the outside world for over five months.

Of course the testers no longer care. They, too, just want to survive.

Besides, the seventh years aren't really prepared. They haven't done anything for the last eight months. Not really. Just sat around, waiting for something to finally happen.

Besides, they're too hungry to concentrate. The slight meals take the very edge off the hunger, but it doesn't do anything to stop the light-headedness. (Finally… _finally_... Draco begins to lose weight. He is the last of them to begin to fade away...)

Besides, they are too tired to sit through those final exams. They wouldn't be able to do much more than put their name at the corner of the page, read the first question, and then their minds would start to wander… and then they would fall asleep.

All of them.

_Even Granger._

**They** graduate then, you know?

They've finished everything required of them (or at least they've attempted) and yet, they still can't leave. The graduated class moves onto the fourth floor, behind the tapestry that hung in Godric Gryffindor's office. How the Slytherins _hate_ this. It makes them even more determined to break free, to escape.

But... Draco doesn't mind it there. It doesn't have the cool comfort of his former dungeon home, but late in the afternoon, the sun briefly shines through his window, warming his world and reminding him he really is still _alive_.

His room somehow is across the hall from Potter's. Weasley's room is beside Potter's, but he never uses it. It's as if he doesn't trust being alone... (_none of them really trust being alone_... it's something they each have to fight... Draco is better at the fight than _anyone else_.)

He likes to watch as his former classmates trek through the old tapestry hole. He even allows himself to wonder where they go. Not that they really have a place to go. But at least they go _somewhere_.

All they are doing is wasting precious energy.

Draco doesn't leave his room unless it's to meet about escaping, or to eat. His diminishing hair hangs limply around him, but for once in his life, it doesn't matter. Nothing matters but keeping track of how many times a day… _how many times an hour_… Potter pushes his way through their hall door.

**One** day, a letter comes, addressed to the entirety of Hogwarts. The students, staff, and former pupils gather in the Great Hall. Sure, Draco may have graduated, but he still sticks to the Slytherin table. All the former Slytherins do (and even some Ravenclaws, a couple of Hufflepuffs, and their soul Gryffindor as well.)

The rest of the graduated ones sit up at the table especially designated for them.

'_The war is over! The Dark Lord has been defeated!'_ the letter claims.

The Houses roar with weak excitement. Draco doesn't believe its over. It's just another ploy of the Death Eaters, surely. The Dark Lord can't be overthrown by something as small as the Ministry of Magic.

Not while their hero is trapped…

The wards don't come down.

Apparently, Dumbledore, wherever he is, doesn't believe the letter either.

**They **only eat twice a day now. Breakfast and lunch have morphed together into a kind of sick brunch: oatmeal with bits of crunchy honey. Dinner isn't much better: soups and the occasional loaf of bread.

None of the students mind. Sometimes, it's hard to bring themselves to even eat the meagre things they are fed. Moving the spoon between the tea-cup sized bowl and their mouth takes more _effort_ than it probably should.

Sometimes, it's not even worth the trip to the Great Hall.

**One **day, the hot water stops. No matter how they try, all water refuses to heat up.

Not that it really matters.

Draco pushes a soapy hand through what's left of his flaccid hair as the icy water beats down on him. He sighs when he looks at his bare forearm. The Dark Mark (which he should have received on his 18th birthday) doesn't shine from his skin, and discolorations line his arms in peculiar patterns.

He doesn't know where they came from. He really doesn't care. They've been there for months and months… they fade away, just to crop back up.

They trail off his arms and cross down his back. He would be worried, but he saw some frighteningly similar shadows on Zabini's back one night. Maybe it's a punishment sent from their Master.

Or maybe it's just the very air of Hogwarts pressing in until it can finally smother them. He takes comfort in them.

The castle seems to shudder in raging coughs around him, and the water turns to blood. He's weary by the time he spells the blood out of his hair.

The next morning, the hot water has returned, but the bruises and the taste of blood remain.

**They've** been there exactly a year when Potter finally listens.

'So, you still love me?'

Yes. Yes. Yes, of course. Why wouldn't he love Potter?

And Potter becomes determined to save Malfoy… keep him standing.

Potter is lonely in his burden, is all. He doesn't love Malfoy. Of course not. Why would he? Why _should_ he?

**You** never see the pair of them together, even though there is the

understanding: Draco is Potter's. No one even knows how this understanding comes about. Draco still hides in his room, and Weasley still sleeps on a cot in Potter's room.

But everyone knows it. When Draco does venture out, even the Slytherins cast him wary glances. 'You're his… You've been marked…'

The taunts are silent, but still there.

**Snow** is on the ground and Draco has lost track of how long the wards have been up. But, he does know how often Potter treks out in the dead of night. No one knows what he does. No one even talks about it.

It's a dirty secret, best left unsaid.

Draco doesn't mind that Potter has his secrets. Draco has his own. It doesn't bother either of them, really.

**The** first time they touch since the charms went up… don't you remember?

Potter appears in the darkest hours of night. Draco knows he's there. The silent creak of Potter's opening door alerts him, and he rolls over to put another notch in the wall as Potter opens Draco's door.

Nothing is said. Draco slides out of bed, not bothering to look for his slippers or robe. He follows Potter in his silk pyjamas, that admittedly, have seen better days. The grey silk is frayed in places, and the cuffs swing two inches above his wrist.

It doesn't matter.

Nothing matters anymore.

They travel down into the dungeons, Draco a careful step behind Potter. Potter knows where he is going; he doesn't bother with even a torch or 'lumos' spell. Draco knows these halls like the back of his hand… or so he thinks.

There's a bland picture at the end of one of the unused halls. Just a grey landscape, no shapes distinguishable. Potter whispers a few words…

And then Potter reaches back and grabs Draco's hand and together, they step through the picture. _Hands are dropped._ They don't touch again that night.

The hall is musty. Draco crinkles his nose, but doesn't say anything.

_That would end it all._

Potter leads him through the dusty halls. The only tracks seem to be Potter's, and now, his.

Maybe it used to be an old classroom. Or maybe it used to be just a storage room. But now, old desks are shoved against the walls and the blackboard is covered in faint pink chalk traces. Torches burn from the walls.

But that isn't what's important about this room. Dumbledore lays in the centre of the room on a simple, bottle green mat. He's stripped to the waist, his skin paper-thin over his bones. His hair has been cut short by someone with little skill, and his great beard has been shaved away. Tubes lead from his body to the very stone walls of Hogwarts.

He_ gasps _for air, shuddering with each breath.

There are tattoos covering his broken skin. He doesn't open his eyes, even though he knows someone is in the room. He says Potter's name, ignoring Draco. Maybe he doesn't even realise Draco is there.

Potter goes to the blackboard, picking up a stick of chalk. With a few random strokes and some muttered, garbled words, the room is filled with a brief warmth. Dumbledore's skin breaks open, dribbling blood down his body. It collects in the hallowed tattoos, pooling up, but not spilling onto the floor.

Potter looks relieved and triumphant, as if he can read the results on Dumbledore's shattered body. He steps back from the board, and the chalk traces slowly turn green.

'Good.' Everything is as it should be. No problems here.

Potter bends down to kiss Dumbledore's brow.

The chalk turns pink.

_They leave._

**Draco **Malfoy does not love Harry Potter.

We_ know_ this.

But _this_ doesn't explain why Draco doesn't tell his Slytherin brethren he finally thinks he knows where the power source for the wards is located. He doesn't say he knows where Dumbledore is. He doesn't say he knows how to get there, and when Potter (apparently the only one to ever visit) makes his solitary trips down there.

He doesn't change his routine. He still hides in his room while everyone else gathers in their makeshift common room. He still treks to dinner, usually alone, but sometimes beside Zabini, or even Parkinson, to sit by himself at the Slytherin table. The rest of the Slytherins (and the Ravenclaws, the couple of Hufflepuffs, and the soul Gryffindor) sit at the table with the rest of the graduated ones.

They've started losing their members.

The sole Gryffindor, and some of the former Hufflepuffs and Ravenclaws (and even a handful of the Slytherins, although its never mentioned) are gone.

They've lost patience with their impromptu leader. They've lost patience with _everything_ and many have given up.

Draco doesn't give up. He won't ever… _He won't…_

**The** castle is smouldering during the day, and stuffy at night. The summer heat makes them all more cross than usual, so everyone sticks to their own chambers, avoiding everyone.

One day, Potter leaves Weasley behind and crosses the hall to Draco's room. The sun shines brutally from the window, but Potter lays down on the faded green sheets beside Draco. The sides of their arms stick together from the sweat, but neither of them move.

They both agree to conserve the meagre food supplies that are left, and they lay like that, unmoving and _not touching_ and silent, for two days.

Potter only gets up twelve times to wander the halls. Draco knows where he's been: Potter's fingers are stained with chalk.

**He **knows he's alone. Or he _would be_ if it wasn't for Potter. What they have isn't much better: they still never see one another, or even acknowledge each other. But still… Draco is marked by Potter in ways the Dark Lord could _never_ mark him.

**By** now, every piece of cloth is ragged, even Draco's, who has tried so hard to keep his clothes neat. His cuffs are ruined, and each time he pulls on his cloak, he imagines his mother's gasps: it's dirty, and really, the house-elves no longer have the strength to wash clothes.

They can barely cook the food.

_It's every man for himself._

Draco gives Granger an old pull over when her coat disintegrates. In exchange, she wearily does his laundry.

He smirks; it keeps her in her place at least.

Potter doesn't care. He doesn't care about anything except keeping the wards up.

**The **autumn winds howl forcibly. It's a bit frightening for Draco, who screams out in the night. He's not the only one: there are screams sounding up and down their hall.

None are louder than Weasley's.

But, unlike Weasley, Potter doesn't come to soothe Draco's fears.

So_ really_, who has the better deal?

**Some** days, Draco can only drag himself out of his bed once. He trudges down to the Great Hall to eat whatever is thrust upon his plate. He never notices what it is anymore. He glances around to see what's happened to the rest of his year: he isn't surprised when he sees them looking just as tired as he is.

He always briefly wonders if the younger students still go to class each day out of habit.

He spends the rest of his time curled up in his bed, asleep.

Most days, he can't even pull himself out of his bed… it's not worth all the trouble to walk the six hundred and forty-eight steps to the Great Hall to eat a cup of insipid soup. He'd rather lay there, and dream about the day it will all be over.

On these days, he wakes up to find a cup of the bland soup sitting on his nightstand, a weak Heating Charm thrown on it.

Traces of pink dust the handle.

**Draco **hasn't been out of bed in four days when he first thinks about it: Why hasn't their resident hero done anything to_ save_ them? As far as Draco can tell, Potter hasn't done anything besides keep the wards up. He sighs a bit.

Their _hero_ should have came up with a brilliant plan by now.

If nothing else, he should have given himself up for the safety of those who believe in him.

**One** day, Potter disappears. And at first, no one notices. After all, they all have their own hunger pains and unconsciousness to attend to.

It takes Draco alone three whole days to notice; the one day he manages to travel to the Great hall, he doesn't take notice of anyone; the other two, he wakes up to no cup of broth. At first, he doesn't even notice that Potter hasn't fed him. He could care less about that now.

It's the fact that he misses the specific way the door swings shut when Potter leaves their hall that alerts him of the disappearance.

**It **takes the others a few more days to realise Potter is gone; Draco doesn't alert them (why should _he_ have to? Potter is_ their_ hero, not his…) As soon as it's realised, McGonagall and Weasley appear in Draco's room. He doesn't bother climbing out of bed. It's not like they expect him to.

'Does he know where Potter is?'

No. No. Of course not. But please… _please_… (and yes… he begs…) find him and bring him back.

**Draco** Malfoy does not love Harry Potter.

But that doesn't explain why he misses Potter (or why he desperately needs him back.)

A sense of panic descends on the castle. The wards still can't be penetrated, as some of the still loyal Slytherins attempt to batter it down; they aren't successful.

No one knows whom to trust any longer, and riot breaks out. Houses stick together, and hide in their dormitories. Draco stays locked in his room.

When he does walk the halls, no one bothers him; not even the still loyal Slytherins.

After all, no one knows where Potter is, and Draco very well could be the reason he is gone.

_(who else would have had the chance?)_

**The** silence of Potter's absence is unbearable. True, when Potter was there, they passed their time in solitude and silence… but this is _different;_ Potter's presence seems to have left the castle.

Finally, Draco _has_ to know what's become of Potter. And so, he waits until dark, when weariness has settled down over the castle, sending factions back to their beds to sleep for just one more night.

He thinks he knows the path, but finds himself lost several times. He just can't remember which hall to take, which corner to turn at. He is surprised when he faces the blank wall that leads to the Slytherin dungeon. He hasn't been there in so long…

He is beyond exhaustion when he finally finds the dull portrait, for this time, he sees the painting for what it is: faint grey shapes forming a wizard's face.

He doesn't know the password, he reminds himself; but he's determined. He reaches out to touch the painting, and his fingers slide through. The faded depiction looks at him through half-formed eyes, as if he can't believe this fair-coloured creature has figured out his secrets. Why had Potter bothered speaking with the print before?

The hall has acquired another layer of dust, but Draco can see Potter's footsteps pressed into the grime. He follows them to where the old storage room is.He expects to find Dumbledore there, pale, paper-thin, devastated. He expects the tubes, the loud silence, the pink traces of chalk.

He even expects to see that Potter has offered up himself.

The room no longer exists.

Maybe the room swallowed up everything in its desire for blood. Maybe Dumbledore offered himself completely to save the school _for just a little longer_. Maybe Potter did the same.

Maybe the castle is ready to eat them all and spit their bones at the Death Eaters that still camp outside its wards.

**One **by one… day by day… Draco notices that people are disappearing. First it's just a few of the Slytherin loyalists. Then some Ravenclaws are picked off. Soon, it's just the ones that graduated, a handful of Hufflepuffs and Gryffindors, and a few of the staff… and Draco… that are left.

This confirms his belief that the castle is readying itself for revenge.

The castle itself is _taking over_.

**He** wakes one evening to disheartened cries that they are the only ones left… the ones who've graduated. The only one of their number that has disappeared is Potter. Perhaps that old rug that hangs over

their door hides them from whatever is attacking.

Draco forces a weak smirk at this.

'Sure… some Hogwarts plague has taken them all.'

No one else finds this funny.

The Bones girl cry, and Greengrass idly pats her back. He notices Macmillan clinch his fists. Even Goldstein and Zabini pace the room in sync.

None of them are willing to venture out any longer.

The few remaining house-elves bring them a cauldron of soup each day for them to divvy out. If it wasn't for this, Draco is sure they would have starved_ to death_ by now...

**Weasley** is the first to vanish. After that, they go to bed each night, resigned to the fact someone different will be gone the next morning.

'How do the Death Eaters do this?' they wonder. 'After getting Potter, why not leave the rest to die in the abandoned castle?' 'Why take them _all_?'

**There** are only five of them left: Ganger, one of the Patils, Finch-Fletchley, Abbott and Draco.

Four of them sleep in what used to be Potter's room, the bed and cot pushed together, a jumbled mass of limbs and cool warmth. Draco stays curled in his own bed, even if he joins them for the brief moments they are all awake.

It's just the five of them for days and days (nearly twenty-five days, to be exact.) And for some reason, they all look to the gaunt boy for guidance. He doesn't know what to tell them, but _he_ is the only thing of _Potter's _they have left.

**He **leaves the relative safety of their hall. He can't stand it any longer: Abbott's whimpers and Finch-Fletchley's grumbles have made everything next to _impossible_ to handle. He doesn't go anywhere specific, and he doesn't travel far (frankly, he's_ afraid_ he'll forget the way back… Hogwarts seems to have gained a few new twists and turns since the last time any of them ventured out...)

By the time he returns, just Granger is left. She cries out to Draco when he wakes her. She doesn't know what happened so he ignores her and leaves her laying in Potter's room.

**He** knows its down to him and the Mudblood… And part of him wishes that he'll be the next to go: it would be a savage pleasure to leave the girl to manage on her own.

She crawls into his bed, staying on the very edge, as if afraid he possesses the strength or the _inclination_ to shove her away.

It's been quite a while since anyone has shared his bed, but soon, they are both fast asleep.

When he wakes, she's gone.

**He's **completely alone for thirteen entire days. Even the house elves and ghosts have gone. It's just Draco, and the sound of his heartbeat.

He no longer sees the reason to leave his bed.

On the seventh day of his solitude, he wakes to find a bowl of weak broth nestled in his hand. He can still see the faint chalk traces.

And for some reason, it _comforts_ Draco to know that Potter is _still _out there somewhere… _still_ refusing to let Draco fall.

On the fourteenth day, the Devil himself comes to visit.

**Dumbledore** has somehow lived through nearly two years (…has it been only two years? It feels like so much _longer_…) of constant abuse. When he comes to sit on Draco's bed, he is much like the last time Draco saw him: naked, skeletal, parchment-thin skin stretched across tired bones, tattoos littering ashen flesh. The tubes are gone, but the bleeding holes remained.

He doesn't say anything, and the pair of them just look at one another.

Draco hears the outside door _snick_ shut in a familiar way; he knows Potter is near by, but he doesn't even avert his eyes from the old man's gaze.

Dumbledore's eyes have become white, lifeless things.

Finally, Dumbledore gives a curt nod and leaves.

Today is not Draco's day to disappear.

**Draco** knows Potter is back in the castle. He doesn't know how, and he doesn't know why, but he can feel it.

And Draco _has_ to find him. He pushes himself out of bed, but doesn't make it any further than his own door. He rests, propped against the door frame. He can hear his heart beat _echo_ through the entire castle.

He looks out his window at the setting sun.

Sometime that evening he makes the six hundred and forty-eight steps to the Great Hall. Just on chance, he tries the front door.

So Potter shows up, placing his hands over Draco's.

Draco doesn't ask where he's been. He doesn't ask where everyone else disappeared to._ Instead_…

'You know that I still love you, right?'

He doesn't know why he's said it… it's just the same old distraction, continuing to be played.

Potter blinks, a weary look in his eye. Of course he knows. Draco wouldn't lie at this point in the game.

He leads Draco back up the stairs and tucks him into bed. When he moves to leave, Draco reaches out and grasps his wrist.

So Potter doesn't say anything. He just climbs into the bed with the threadbare, dirty green sheets. He lays stiff beside Draco.

When Draco wakes, he's alone once again.

**And** then… one day… everything is different. Draco wakes, knowing he can not win this. He can't escape, and even if he does, he could never be responsible for those damned wards falling.

Potter tried to save him from realising it, he knows. _(Sometimes he thinks it was Potter's sole ambition with him…)_ He never could have won this. The Dark Lord _himself_ couldn't have won this.

And now… there's no reason to soldier on. He's given up all hope of ever escaping. He's given up all hope period.

When he closes his eyes, he hopes and prays that he never opens them again.

When he does wake up again, he knows it's all over.

**Draco** Malfoy does not love Harry Potter.

How many times must I say it?

How many times must we go over it?

He doesn't. Never has, and never will. But did Potter believe this?

Of course not…_ (we tried to tell him…) _the hero never does.

The wards fall. Everyone always knew they would someday. But no one expected it to happen like it did.

Of course… Draco wasn't responsible for it. And remember? 'When the castle falls, you'll fall with it.' He didn't want to fall. Remember? He was determined not to.

Draco doesn't fall. But he doesn't stand as he should.

The castle falls. Of course I repeat myself for a reason. _Aren't you listening?_

The castle falls, but Draco is the only one who stands on either side. The rest have vanished.

'_Where is it they have gone?'_

Draco smirks.

He isn't sure.

**The **war is over when Draco steps out of Hogwarts for the first time in two years. You know what happens next… _you've known what happens all along. _Part of you has feared this ending since the beginning._  
_  
Draco stumbles out the door. No one is there, remember?

But that doesn't explain the killing curse that cracks through the air.

And now, a raven haired kid stands at Draco's grave, looking guilty and trying not to cry. Surely you can guess what happened in-between?

"I… we got everyone else out," he stammers. "I don't know why we left you until last…" He is still thin, much _too thin_ to be considered healthy. The battles have worn him down; he's next-to-nothing.

"… the way the wards were, we could only get certain people out first… a certain Arithmantic order… order of importance or something…" He doesn't know if he's telling the truth, or whatever Dumbledore had told him was truth.

"Dumbledore wanted to leave you… Said that no matter what, we couldn't trust you. But… I couldn't. And I knew you'd never let us take you out of there. So… I destroyed the wards…" The boy's shoulders shake, and anyone looking would have sworn he is crying, but no tears fall from his dry eyes.

"You know, it's over. Dumbledore and Voldemort weren't that different after all. When you find the weakness of one of the greatest wizards, you have the weakness of them all, really."

The boy looks uncomfortable, as if he doesn't know what else to say.

"Just thought you should know."

He turns to walk away from the grave of the only Hogwarts casualty. But before he even takes a step, he thinks better of it and he spins back around. His eyes are still dry, but you can_ hear _the desperation in his voice.

"I knew you didn't love me. Or if you had, it was because you'd forgotten what love really was and you just convinced yourself that you did."

He pauses, as if he isn't sure if he should continue. But he knows he _has to_ or he won't ever be able to shut his eyes without seeing grey stare back.

"I saved you didn't I? I gave you_ everything_ you wanted."

He's upset and at a loss for words. But you can hear what his heart is thinking, can't you? You can hear those silent, forever-unsaid words…

"I didn't love you either…"

_The lie echoes in your ears…_

_

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**A/N: **If you have any questions, just leave me a review or email me. I'll get back to you.


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